


Tickling the Ivories

by riseuplikeangels



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Oral, RoseKan - Freeform, Smut, ha hahaA, homesmut, lesbians, rosemary, shameless indulgent bullshit, that's it that's the thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:04:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riseuplikeangels/pseuds/riseuplikeangels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternatively titled "Rose Is An Erotic Pianist That Doesn't Know She's Being Erotic." <br/>Alternatively titled "Kanaya Has The Biggest Piano Kink Around." </p>
<p>Make your deductions from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tickling the Ivories

There are some things that Rose does that drive you absolutely up the wall. When she bites her bottom lip, for example, you can’t quell the desire to be biting that lip for her. Her morning yoga routine is another good situation to indicate--Rose in tight black leggings, stretching out her lithe body with an almost indecent languor...how could you possibly not be turned on by that?

But, you see, Rose knows about these intangible erogenous zones, and so you notice her biting that full bottom lip for you when she wants you to tip her backwards and worship her body. Likewise, she does yoga far more sensually than yoga was ever intended to be, because she is a tease and a sly little minx and you adore her for it. 

However, almost ironically, the thing she does that gets you hottest is the one thing she’s completely oblivious of. When she sits down at the baby grand piano in your apartment to practice, play out a few tunes (some familiar, some not), you can barely stop yourself from vocally expressing the desire that rises up in you. It’s only made worse when you recognize that Rose literally has no idea what her tickling of those ivories does to you. When it comes to this, there is no teasing. No saucy glances, no suggestive lip-biting, no lascivious side comments. Just Rose, sitting placidly at the piano, her eyes focused on the sheets of music in front of her, her mouth relaxed. She prefers the violin, you know, but has a knack for the piano that she can’t deny. Recently, she’s begun practicing more and more, which has not worked out well for your sanity. 

She’s playing Einaudi today, a lazy Sunday where you and she went out for breakfast and then kissed a fair amount. It probably would have continued into the montage of insatiable moans and rolling hips that the two of you tend towards on weekends had Rose not been within tasting distance of finishing her latest novel, and left you (a’muss and already aroused) to your newest design. Which you’ve been working on for quite some time in your sewing room, but really, between this black lace and red silk and the clattering of your Singer, and Rose’s sweet, unknowingly erotic piano music, it’s obvious what your choice is. 

“Taking a break?” you ask Rose when you step into the living room where she presides over the baby grand, admiring her shoulder blades under her tank top and her long legs working the sustain pedal, slender and pale under a chocolate-colored skirt. Beautiful. Always, ever beautiful. 

“Mm-hmm,” Rose says without looking up or pausing in the loping rhythm she’s playing. “Just a few minutes,” she murmurs, almost to herself, and turns a page. 

For a few moments, you’re content just sitting and watching her, but you can feel that familiar want begin to pull at your stomach, the blood rushing inarguably downward. Usually, you excuse yourself and calm down, or else creep off to pleasure yourself discreetly, but today, maybe because of the earlier denial, you can’t seem to move from the room. Her back moves, ever so slightly, and another throb of arousal assaults you. It is suddenly extraordinarily warm in this room, and the air is silent apart from Rose’s playing. You lick your lips, almost get up, don’t, make a few quick decisions, and step smoothly across the room, laying a hand on your lovely Rose’s shoulder. 

“Hello, darling,” she says, her song slowing but not stopping. 

You try to speak, and find you are unable to trust your voice. Her song continues, and you drop to your knees next to her piano bench.

She looks over at you, her fingers skittering to a stop, the music broken. “Kanaya...” she starts, a question in her voice, but you are having none of that. This has gone on far too long, and you are going to alleviate this frustration if it kills you. 

“Keep playing,” you tell her, and she looks confused, wondering what on earth you think you’re doing, maybe wondering if you’ve finally lost your marbles. But she heeds your words, and her melody starts back up again, a few measures before where she left off. She catches up to herself, and plays, though she keeps glancing over at you. You wait for just a few seconds, working out the logistics of the position in your head, and then in your plunge of bravery you crawl under her piano, careful to avoid banging your horns. 

Rose has a habit unbecoming of any professional piano player; she sits on the very edge of the bench, as though she’s waiting for a sign to spring up and run somewhere else. You’ve teased her about it before, but it’s actually to your advantage in a situation like this. You hear Rose’s melody falter again, but she keeps going without saying a word. 

From this position under her (slightly cramped, but you are willing to make sacrifices), you can see her legs, the right foot pressing down on the pedal, and her left flat on the floor. You can see her chest, modest and shown off in that tank top of hers, which you love. And most importantly (at least in this situation), you can see right up that chocolate-colored skirt of hers, to the lavender underwear that you bought her for her last birthday, blushing the whole while. 

Your turn to be the tease in this relationship, you run your hands up and down her calves, searching higher and higher with each pass, laying a few kisses to the freckles around her knees, which you find absolutely adorable. And focused Rose keeps playing, though you’re not sure if her self-control is actually this fantastic or if she’s decided that this is a game that she wants to win, and has stepped up her motivation. Her song changes from a sweet, soft melody to one with bolder chords and a bigger sound, and it falls on your ears in euphonics as you continue your yet-chaste touches. They turn much less virginal when you pass her knees and begin stroking your nails up her inner thigh.

And her playing may not stop, but you can tell you’re pulling a reaction out of her by the sudden tensing of her muscles, at the change in tempo of the breaths she’s been pulling in while pressing keys, and by the faint scent of her own body betraying her arousal gracing the air. The idea makes you smirk, pleased to be eliciting such a reaction from her, and you lean forward, nudging your head between her legs, your hands slipping up to secure at her hips. Her skin under the fabric is soft, familiar, lightly scented with her favorite shower gel, and you kiss one of the sensitive places, closer to the apex between her legs than you’ve touched on before. She shudders, and her piece shudders too, yet she keeps playing. Her motivation impresses you, and also turns you on even more. Assuming that’s possible. Your own arousal is almost painful by this point, but this is about Rose, Rose and Rose’s music and Rose’s pleasure. So you keep the contact, kissing and touching at her legs, then running your tongue up a portion of her skin that has her shivering again, her calf muscles tensing and her foot slipping off the pedal for a half-second before she regains it. 

Your hands are wandering again, having thoroughly kissed every inch of flesh within your narrow limits, and they slide up her skirt, playing with the waistband of her underwear. You run your fingers around the elastic, slip one of them inside and cherish the little gasp that emanates from her at the movement. Finally, when you’ve had enough of teasing and playing and seeing the purple of Rose’s underwear instead of her actual anatomy, gorgeous in its own right, you tug the undergarment off. It gets a little tangled in her ankles, but you manage to snatch it away when she lifts her foot off the pedal momentarily, tossing it aside unceremoniously and leaving Rose with her skirt riding up past her hips, her right leg still dutifully perpendicular to the piano while she works the pedal, her left moved to the side, spread as far as she can manage in this compromising position. And there’s the mostly lovely blush all over her, the blush that crops up on her cheeks when you’re just about to enter her and make her say your name like it’s the last thing she’s ever going to say. 

That’s not your plans for the moment, though, oh no. From the moment you heard her play the first notes of the first song, you’ve been wanting for her taste, her warmth against your tongue, and so that’s the final destination in mind while you’re kissing up her thighs again, your horns nudging gently against her skin. You are very good at keeping them out of the way by now, even though sometimes it hurts your neck. 

Amongst the notes rippling out from under Rose’s fingers still, you think you hear her sigh your name, barely audibly. And that’s what gets you in the end, that’s what breaks your self-control and has you leaning forward the last few inches, taking one long, slow lick. Still teasing. Enough to make her breath catch and a little cry come from her, and her playing grows disorganized. She misses a few notes, and then catches back up and tries her very best to keep going, though her dynamics are not nearly as defined and clear-cut as before. You absolutely love the idea of breaking down her self-control like this, in such an auditory form, and so you keep going, slow to the point of torture at first, and then with no warning you’re plunging your tongue inside her, flicking it the way you know she likes best. 

This signals the second time during this entire encounter she stops playing altogether, though it’s only for several seconds, and then she heaves a deep sigh and composes herself as best as possible. You can just imagine her face; flushed, her eyes half-lidded, that bottom lip you so adore trembling ever so slightly. You wish you could see it, but unfortunately your senses are otherwise occupied, with Rose’s taste on your tongue and the smell of her everywhere, the soft hair trailing down between her legs rubbing softly against your cheek as you continue the ministrations with your mouth. You alter your techniques every minute or so, first focusing on the firm bundle of nerves that has her breath coming in short little gasps, then slipping your tongue fully inside her, as far as you can, and moving in the limited space. And you’re rewarded with a low moan of frustration that cuts right through you...

...And the strangest thought assails you, so odd you almost pull your mouth off of her to giggle. Rose would absolutely murder you if you came on the floor under her piano. 

So you keep yourself under control as best you can, holding your lovely Rose’s hips and pulling her into your mouth, licking and sucking and touching just the tip of a fang to her most sensitive places. You’re barely paying attention to her playing anymore, but you’re dimly aware that it’s a total disaster, and she’s missing notes and not in the right key and you wonder if she’s even following any of her music, or if she’s just pressing random keys and hoping music comes out. To her credit, though, she’s still playing, even though you can feel her quiver under you, a sure sign that she’s close to climax. 

You redouble your efforts, taking the whole of her in your mouth at once, flicking your tongue in circles and then in lines of every direction, careful not to bite because as much as you might like that, she wouldn’t. “If I wanted myself pierced down there,” she had once sniffed at you, “then I would get it done myself.” 

The noises Rose makes when she climaxes vary on the occasion and style of your lovemaking; when she is immensely tired after a long day of work and it’s more of a stress reliever than anything else, she makes small noises, high and breathy in her throat. When it’s a surprise fling or somewhere where there’s the risk of getting caught, she tries to stifle her moans in your neck and it rarely works unless she bites the skin. Which she does. And when it’s a day where the two of you have nothing planned and there’s no one around and there won’t be for a very long time, like the condo you rented for her on the white-sand beaches of Costa Rica, then she’s unashamed of her noises, and doesn’t bother stifling her cries. 

Today she laughs when she comes, something that she doesn’t often do but you think must have something to do with the absurdity of the position and situation the two of you are in. Your tongue is inside her when she finishes, her piano playing all over the place and a complete mess as she rolls her hips forward into your mouth, contracting around your tongue and giggling fit to burst, like climaxing is the funniest thing since that improvisation show she loves on WMV. You think it’s probably the most precious thing ever, and also exceedingly attractive, but in any case Rose is breathing hard and smoothing her skirt back in place, the silence of the room apparent as she takes her hands off the keys once and for all to push back her bench and help you up. 

“Your makeup’s a mess,” is what she says to you first, and you’re just about to make a witty comeback when she flings her arms around your neck and kisses you open-mouthed. When she finally draws back from the kiss, her face still a little pink (adorable) and her eyes calming down from wild (arousing), she raises an eyebrow in that way she has. “Seems like someone’s got a bit of a piano kink I didn’t know about ‘till now,” she tells you, her voice playful. 

“You have no idea,” you tell her, and she looks meaningfully down your body at your very apparent arousal. 

“Well,” says Rose, that maddening little minx. “I was going to finish off the last three pages of my book...” Oh, God, no, is what you think, but you don’t say it. “...but,” she continues, “I think I have some more pressing business to take care of first.” 

That’s all the invitation you need to lean in to kiss her again, her mouth crashing against yours and her leg coming up to wrap around your hips, drawing you closer to her. 

“Carry me to the bedroom, my lady?” your darling Rose asks of you, and who are you to deny her?

**Author's Note:**

> More self-indulgent smutty lesbian bullshit. This one featuring one of my own kinks. (Ssh, don't tell.)


End file.
